Beware This Boy (7 page)

“What are you referring to?”

“Nothing important.”

The man on the end of the phone chuckled. “You Americans have such a poetic way with words. You’re saying he’s a little criminal already, this tender shoot of the Great Revolution?”

“I’ll bet he has a record as long as the Mississippi.”

“And his name?”

“His
nom de guerre
is Bolton.”

“Ah, how ambitious. One of Birmingham’s more famous citizens.”

“I’m sure he’d didn’t come up with that himself. The ponce assigns our names. He let slip the lad’s real name – it’s Donny. First name, that is. He is about five-four, thin, pasty-looking, brown hair, and a scar at the corner of his upper lip, right side. Pretty eyes.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“They’re the most distinctive thing about him: light hazel colour, dark lashes. Girl’s eyes.”

“Is he a homosexual?”

“I’d say definitely not. This little thug is the type that makes a notch on his belt every time he’s shagged some poor girl.”

“Good. Well done, Mr. Hitchcock. We should be able to trace him quite easily from your vivid description. Our records
on the other three men are quite complete now. Do you have something to write on?”

“Uh-huh.” Lev didn’t even try to get out his notebook. His shoulder was too sore, for one thing. Besides, it aggravated him that Grey didn’t trust him to remember. Probably because Lev was a Yank. Not from the right schools, don’t you know.

“Ready?”

“Go ahead.”

“Cardiff, as you might expect, is a militant Welsh nationalist, real name Ewen Evans. He works at the factory, in the canteen. Arnold, the ponce, as you call him, is a silly boy playing Sexton Blake games. He’s in way over his head. He spent one or two terms at Rugby before he was sent down for poor work habits. That’s no doubt why he chose the code name he did: Thomas Arnold was a headmaster there in Victorian times. His son was one of our most famous poets. He wrote the exquisite ‘Dover Beach.’ Perhaps you are familiar with it?”

“That’s the one about the ignorant armies having a go at each other on a dark plain, isn’t it? Not that much different nowadays, if you think about it.”

“Yes, quite. But be that as it may, we were in the midst of discussing Comrade Arnold.”

“He giggles all the time. Very irritating.”

“His real name is Gilbert Dix. Father a schoolteacher at a third-rate prep school. Patriotic to a fault. The scion is rebelling, I suppose.”

“What did you get on Comrade Chopin?”

“He is a bona fide refugee. Polish. He was arrested for so called anti-social behaviour, meaning, in his case, being an advocate of Communism. He was sent to a prison in Dachau for six months. The Nazis are using the term
concentration
camp
, meaning they concentrate all the same kind of prisoners in one spot. Easier for administration, I assume. So Germanic, don’t you think?”

“Sounds ominous to me.” Lev tried without much success to rub at his shoulder and hold the telephone receiver at the same time.

“Apparently our friend had a bad time during incarceration,” continued Grey. “It’s possible the Abwehr is running him as an undercover agent, or he may be a dyed-in-the-wool true-believer communist. We’re not sure yet. His name is Dmitri Wolfsiewicz.”

The booth was steaming up, and Lev began to draw little faces on the glass. They all had pipes in their mouths.

“What was on the agenda last night?” asked Grey.

“We had a lively discussion about whether we would cause injury to civilians or not. For the greater good and all that. Means justifies the ends. Neither Chopin nor Cardiff said much. Chopin never does but the Welshman is usually vocal. The runty thug said, ‘We’re not playing marbles here. Course there’ll be dead ’uns.’ ”

“Did he indeed.”

“No, what he actually said was, ‘We’re not playing fucking bloody marbles. This is bleeding war. People frigging die.’ ”

“Foul-mouthed, is he?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Was this with reference to …?”

“Beg pardon, what did you say?”

“Sunday’s incident. Did this have to do with Sunday’s incident?”

“Sort of but not directly. Nobody claimed responsibility. I thought the ponce and Taffy were troubled, and maybe the Pole, but I’m not positive. They don’t give away much, these fellows. I couldn’t tell if they had anything to do with it or not.”

“Hmm … how interesting. Anything else?”

“The ponce had his big moment. With much licking of his chops, he declared that the chief – that is, Comrade Patrick, not yet seen – wants to close the factory down completely by Christmas.”

“How?”

“The very question yours truly asked. He couldn’t say right now, says Poncy, but we will know soon enough.”

“Is this serious, do you think, or is the young man blowing air out of his anus?”

Lev almost burst out laughing. “I think Arnold likes to pretend to be thick with the boss. He wants to be seen as the lieutenant but I think the real next in line is the Welshman. I didn’t get the impression that an actual plan had been formed as yet.”

There was a silence at the end of the phone. Lev could hear a sucking sound as if the man were lighting a pipe. He added a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker to one of the little faces on the window.

“Do they trust you?” asked Grey.

“They’d be stupid if they did. I haven’t been tested yet. I just have good references.”

“Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me. You’re going to the factory today, I assume.”

“That’s right.”

“I should tell you there is a policeman investigating the explosion. His name is Tyler, Detective Inspector Tom Tyler. I don’t think he’ll be a problem, but steer clear of him. He’s been seconded from the Shropshire constabulary but he’s no country bumpkin. Wouldn’t do to underestimate him. We don’t want to waste valuable time with his going off on some wild goose chase as far as you are concerned.”

Not for the first time, Lev found himself admiring the other man’s perfect grammar.

“I’ll be the soul of discretion.”

Grey gave a disbelieving cough. “Please be. Don’t arouse his suspicions. I’ll sign off now, then. You can of course reach me any time. We must watch this situation very closely.”

Lev hung up the phone. Holding his arm tight to his body, he stepped out of the booth and replaced the out of order sign. The damp air brought on a fit of coughing.
Damn the English weather. Damn the war. Damn ignorant kids
.

The three of them were sitting around the kitchen table.

Eileen had waited as long as she could before waking up her parents. Once the initial shock of the situation had abated, they had rallied round, as she knew they would. Brian had gone back to sleep.

“He was always such a good boy. I would never have dreamt he’d do something like this,” said Beatrice.

Joe blew on his tea to cool it. His grey hair was sticking up in tufts but his blue eyes were keen and alert. Eileen thought the crisis had invigorated him.

“What on earth caused him to desert?” continued Beattie. She turned to Eileen. “Has he seen Vanessa?”

“He said not.”

“Well, I just hope she didn’t write him one of those what-you-call-it, John letters. I wouldn’t put it past her. That’d send him round the bend if anything would.”

“I don’t think he knows himself why he did it,” said Eileen. “He had a short pass to come home. Rumour was they were going to Africa.”

“Africa. Lord help us. I don’t blame him.” She picked up a skein of wool from the basket beside her. “Hold up your hands, Eileen; I might as well wind this while we talk.”

Obediently Eileen did as she was asked and Beattie hooked the ends of the skein over her fingers.

“But like you said, Bea,” continued Joe, “other soldiers don’t run away from their duty.” He sighed. “We have to come to some decision about what to do. It can’t be just our responsibility. We’ll have to speak to his mother and father. And Vanessa. They are married, after all.”

“We’re not going to turn him in,” said Beatrice. The ball of wool was growing rapidly.

Joe poured some tea into his saucer and slurped it down. “If we don’t – which of course goes without saying – but if we don’t, what are our alternatives?”

“It’s only been a few days. He could still go back, couldn’t he?” said Beatrice.

“He’s adamant he won’t do that,” said Eileen.

“I suppose we could send him on his way.”

“Don’t be silly, Joe,” exclaimed his wife. “On his way where? Where can he go?”

“Calm down, Bea, I’m just thinking out loud.”

“He’s too desperate, Dad,” said Eileen. “Frankly, I’d rather report him to the police than have him go off and murder somebody.”

Abruptly Beattie stopped what she was doing. “Murder somebody? Why on earth do you say that, Eileen?”

“I’m sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean that literally. But he’s in such a state, who knows what he could do.”

Joe chewed on his lip. “Then the only other possibility is that we hide him until the war is over.”

“Which could be years from now,” said Eileen.

“True. But I don’t know if we have much choice, do we.”

The two women looked at him.

“No, we don’t,” replied Eileen.

Brian lay on the bed, waiting, thinking. He knew that his granddad, his gran, and his auntie were downstairs discussing what to do. He didn’t expect them to understand his reasons for running away. He had a hard time explaining them even to himself. One of the blokes in the bunk next to his received a letter from his girlfriend saying she’d met somebody else. Hodge was furious more than hurt. “You can’t trust them, Bri. No matter what tale they spin, they’ll hand it all over to some sweet-talker the moment your boat sails.” Brian had immediately started to worry about Vanessa. They’d been married only a month before he was called up and sent to Aldershot for basic training. He hadn’t seen her for over five months. They’d been separated longer than together. He thought about her constantly, until the need to see her became a consuming hunger. So he’d run away, hidden out in barns and sheds until finally he hopped on a train at Wolverhampton and managed by sheer luck not to get caught.

The train had pulled into the Birmingham station only minutes before a big raid started. He’d hardly got to the end of the street when the warning siren began to scream. The crowd of people around him scattered, most of them heading for the nearest shelter. But the thought of being packed like sardines in a tin repelled him and he kept on, in spite of the warden yelling at him to take cover. Soon he was the only person on the street.

He could hear the rumble of the Jerry bombers overhead. There must have been dozens of them. The searchlights began to rake the sky and he saw planes unload their bombs, which twisted and turned as they fell, as if they were light as sticks. The
thwump, thwump
of the ack-ack guns sounded loud and powerful. The barrage balloons, like huge silver fish, shivered
on their tethers, and he saw one break loose and collide with some electric wires, bursting into dazzling flames. He had run then, fear propelling him.

Brian rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. His Aunt Eileen had used the word
concussed
. The Cowans had been concussed by the force of the bomb blast. There was a knitting bag on the floor next to Mrs. Cowan like the kind his gran had, and Mr. Cowan had a newspaper spread across his knees. Brian wondered at what point Mr. Cowan had taken his wife’s hand, and if in those last few moments of life they had known what was happening.

He shoved aside the coverlet and swung his legs out of the bed, realizing he was wearing blue flannel pyjamas that were too large for him – must be his granddad’s. He stood up and walked carefully to the wardrobe where the chamber pot was kept. He hated the fact that he had to use it and leave it for his gran to empty in the outside lavatory, but there was no help for it. He daren’t go outside.

The linoleum was cold beneath his feet and he shivered as he went over to the window and cautiously lifted a corner of the blackout curtain. The clock said it was nine o’clock but it could easily have been late afternoon. Outside, the backyard looked dreary and dank; the sodden bushes along the path drooped. The fog had lifted but its presence lingered in the dampness and the grey feeble light.

He heard the sound of the front door and his aunt calling goodbye to her parents.

He replaced the chamber pot in the wardrobe. Then he went out into the hall. As he was crossing the landing, his gran’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs.

“Bri? Are you up?”

She was standing looking up at him, and her worry came at him like a blow.

“Yes, I’m up, Gran. I’ll be right there.”

“I’ve made you some breakfast. Granddad says you can use his razor if you want to.”

“That’ll be super, thanks.”

He continued on to the bathroom. His image in the mirror was shocking. Deep shadows underneath his eyes, a heavy growth of beard, greasy hair. He shaved quickly and scrubbed at his face with a flannel. His clothes weren’t anywhere to be seen, but there was a striped terry cloth dressing gown hanging on the back of the door that he guessed was for him.